Duet
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Waterloo". Boyd and Grace meet for coffee on a Saturday morning, but some secrets can be shared and some can't. Complete. Follow-on to "Quartet". T-rated for language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

**A/N: **_This is a short follow-on to my fic "Quartet". If you haven't read it, you probably should before reading this one...  
But if you really want to just jump straight in, well, the setting is post-"Waterloo" and Grace is living with Murray Stuart whilst Boyd is living with Frankie..._

_#vivelarévolution_

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**Duet**

by Joodiff

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They walk and talk in the thin early spring sunshine, two old friends quietly enjoying each other's company on a Saturday morning while their respective partners are busy elsewhere. But it's more, much more than that, and they both know it. There are undercurrents, things that aren't spoken aloud but are shared and understood nonetheless. Grace proudly tells him how well Murray is doing with his therapy and how much he is enjoying the volunteer work he has started to do, and in return Boyd dryly tells her about the half-hearted and largely unproductive house-hunting he and Frankie have been doing since Christmas. It's what they both don't say that matters far more; something Grace is acutely aware of. There are things she wants to say, things she's desperate to say. Things she _can't_ say.

_He lashes out at me, Peter, when everything's boiling up inside him…_

They stop by the park's large ornamental pond, stand together watching a young mother feeding the ducks with her excited, happy toddler, and maybe that's what finally gives Boyd the cue to say what he does. He looks up at the clear blue sky and sighs heavily; a sigh that's too obviously troubled. Still gazing upwards, he says bluntly, "Frankie's pregnant."

Caught completely by surprise, the astonished response slips from her before Grace can prevent it. "Pregnant…? How…?"

Boyd snorts – a sharp, derisive noise – and pushes his hands even deeper into his coat pockets. "The usual way, how do you bloody think? Is your memory really that bad nowadays?"

Determinedly not letting her mind wander to memories best left to slumber quietly, Grace shoots him an icy glare. "No, I mean… Well, I just didn't realise you and Frankie were thinking about…"

"One of those things," he says with a stoical shrug that's staunchly dismissive; one that tells her far, far more than he probably intends.

She struggles to process the information, does her best to force a smile. "That's… wonderful news. Congratulations."

Boyd gives her a sideways look, says sardonically, "Nice try, Grace."

She ignores the snide implication. "But you're happy about it, surely?"

"Oh, absolutely bloody delighted," Boyd says sourly. "I really can't _wait_ to go through all that again at my age."

A little maliciously, she says, "Mm. Think of all those sleepless nights."

"Thank you so much for that."

Grace shakes her head slowly, her thoughts and emotions twisting in confusing, contradictory directions. She asks carefully, "And Frankie…?"

"Frankie," he says looking up at the sky again. There's a telling pause before he continues, "Frankie. Well, that's another story, isn't it? I think she'd completely given up on the idea of ever having kids. This… could be her last chance. You understand? How can I take that away from her?"

_He hits me, Peter. Not every day, not every week, but he hits me…_

Frankie is in her early forties. The brutal mathematics of human biology are unforgiving. Quietly, Grace says, "You can't."

They are both trapped, she realises. Trapped by too many opposing forces. No matter how bad things get, she won't walk away from Murray and Boyd won't walk away from Frankie. The full scale of the eventual tragedy has yet to be revealed, but Grace can't see a happy ending anywhere in sight. For any of them. Into the powerful silence that's fallen she finds herself saying bitterly, "You're such an idiot, Boyd. For God's sake, it's not exactly difficult to be careful, is it?"

"Oh, because it's obviously all _my_ fault. _Frankie_ couldn't be in any way to blame, of course."

"You know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't know that I do," Boyd growls, obviously stung by the sharp, accusatory note in her voice. "Christ, I may not be exactly dancing with joy and delight, but it's hardly the end of the bloody world, is it?"

"No, Grace says quietly. A dull pain is blooming somewhere inside her, one she immediately tries to suppress. With an inward sigh, she shakes her head. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. I was just a bit… surprised… that's all."

"Yeah, you and me both," he says, tone and expression almost completely deadpan.

Despite everything, despite the still gnawing edge pain and regret, Grace can't quite suppress a slight, mocking smile at the tiny hint of ruefulness that slips through his carefully-constructed barricades. Nor can she stop herself from uttering a sly, "Well done, tiger."

"Fuck off, Grace," he tells her darkly, but he abruptly takes hold of her arm and amiably encourages her to slip it comfortably through his. "C'mon, I'll buy you a coffee, and you can tell me all about the apeman and the donkey sanctuary, or whatever it is."

"City farm."

Boyd shrugs nonchalantly. "If you say so."

She _can't_ tell him, and not only because she doesn't know how to even begin to explain. She can't tell him because she knows he will be appalled; appalled and furious. Boyd won't listen to any of the excuses she's becoming so good at finding, he will simply let fly with that legendary, awe-inspiring temper and she won't be able to stop him, won't be able to hold him back. If Grace tells him he will do what he's always done; he will immediately leap to her defence with no thought at all for the possible consequences. She can't tell him, can't run the risk. It's not Murray's fault… the things he's seen, the things he's been through…

"So, come on," Boyd says after a while, as they sit in the corner of the little café trying to warm themselves up. "What's really going on with you and that bloody waste of space you're living with?"

Sometimes Grace forgets just how perceptive he can be when it suits him. Not meeting his eye, she says, "Don't call him that."

"Quit stalling," he tells her impatiently. "What is it you're not telling me?"

_He loses his temper, Peter…_ "Nothing."

"Grace."

She does look at him then, looks at him and wonders how and why they've ended up where they are now. The answers are the same as they've always been; the regrets haven't changed, either. Can't live with each other, can't live without each other. Trite. Hackneyed. True. A touch of masochism makes her ask, "Do you ever think about what life would be like now if we'd stayed together?"

The gaze that comes back in return is remarkably steady. "Sometimes. You?"

She nods slightly. "Now and then."

Boyd leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. "It's him, isn't it? Stuart?"

"Peter…"

"I knew it," he says, and suddenly the deep dark eyes have lost their look of wry tranquillity. Now, they are flinty; as cold and hard as gunmental. "What's he done? Come on, Grace, talk to me."

"It's not his fault," she says defensively. The automatic words are a stupid mistake. Of course they are.

And here it is, the fierce Boyd temper, now rising at incredible speed as he raps out, "I'll kill him. I'll fucking kill him."

Her hand darts out almost of its own accord, catching his wrist as he starts to stand. Grace locks her grip, well-aware of just how easily he could pull free, but praying that he won't. Not yet. Her tone low, she says urgently, "Boyd."

She knows his fury. Knows it very well indeed. He freezes for a moment, then slowly sinks back into his chair. Suddenly sounding intensely weary, he says, "Tell me."

"I can't."

"_Won't_, you mean. For fuck's sake, Grace. Oh… please don't tell me he's knocking you about?"

She stares straight into his eyes and she lies. She lies because the alternative terrifies her. "Of _course_ he's not. Just leave it, Peter, please."

Boyd looks pointedly at his captured wrist and after a moment Grace warily releases it. Silence falls between them again, a silence highly charged with so many conflicting things. They look at each other, no words spoken, and she wishes – more than anything – that things were different; for her, for him, for all of them. They are all prisoners, each of them shackled by something, whether they're consciously aware of it or not.

"It'll be all right," she says brusquely, and she's honestly not sure if she's trying to fool him – or herself. "It's just a bit of a rough patch, that's all."

"I mean it," he says without any trace of drama. "If I find out he's hurting you, God help me, I'll – "

"I know," Grace interrupts quietly, and she does. "It's fine. Really."

"Hm."

She knows he's not convinced, knows all his instincts – finely honed after years of investigation – are telling him that something's very wrong indeed. Attempting to distract him, she changes the subject with a sudden, "So when's the baby due?"

He blinks, evidently completely wrong-footed by the unexpected question. "September."

"Ah ha," she says, determinedly trying to lighten the mood. "Everything starts to make sense. A very _merry_ Christmas, was it?"

"Piss off, Grace. And don't change the subject."

"There are some very strong arguments for late fatherhood, you know," she says, deliberately ignoring him.

"I'm not having this conversation with you," Boyd says abruptly. "Bring the apeman over to dinner next weekend."

"So you can start a fight with him? I don't think so."

"Grace…"

She sighs. "I know you don't like him. That's okay, you don't have to like him – but it's my life. My life, my choice. You've got Frankie, I've got Murray. Everything else is… irrelevant."

He frowns, dark brows drawing down heavily. "Christ, how can you say that? You're my friend. One of my best friends, in fact. Screw everything else; if he's hurting you – "

"Peter," she says gently. "Peter. I adore you, you know that. But I need you to stop this. Back off now. _Please_."

He gives in; not without much grumbling, but he gives in eventually. The conversation turns to less contentious things and Grace is glad. She can deal with Murray. Of course she can. He isn't a bad man, and he's taking his therapy sessions extremely seriously. It isn't his fault if –

_What the hell am I doing? This could end now. A word from me, and this could end right now… No more walking on eggshells, no more making excuses. No more black eyes…_

Boyd says irritably, "You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

"I'm sorry," she responds quickly. "Hendon…?"

"I'm jacking it in," he says, pausing to drain the last of his coffee. "End of July when the current intake finishes the course."

Startled, she says, "You're retiring?"

He snorts. "Don't sound so bloody surprised. What, at my age you really think I can cope with a screaming baby and still get up for work every morning? What am I, Superman?"

"And Frankie?"

Boyd shrugs his broad shoulders. "She says she wants to go back to work straight after maternity leave."

"Wait, you're actually trying to tell me you're going to be a stay-at-home dad?"

Boyd glowers. "Go on, take the piss. Make the most of it."

Grace can't stop a soft chuckle escaping. "Oh, I fully intend to. This, I can't _wait_ to see."

"I'm sure," he says dryly. He leans back in his chair, studies her intently for several long seconds before saying, "I have to go. I told Frankie I'd pick her up and take her out to lunch."

Grace nods solemnly. "Of course. I need to make a move myself."

"Listen to me, Grace," he says, his voice low and intense. "Men like Murray Stuart, they don't change. Doesn't matter how much therapy they have, they _don't_ change. Not fundamentally. You know that as well as I do – better, in fact. You're a psychologist, for God's sake. However bad it is now, it's only going to get worse, you do know that, don't you?"

"You're making assumptions, Boyd."

"So tell me I'm wrong," he challenges.

She can't meet his gaze. She fumbles for her handbag. "Give Frankie my love – and my congratulations. Tell her I'll be in touch."

"Grace."

"No, Peter. _No_. This is nothing to do with you. You have your life and I have mine."

"One word, Grace. That's all. One word from you, and I'll make sure he never – "

"Stop it," she tells him sharply, realising how close to tears she is. She gets to her feet. "Thanks for coffee…"

"God's _sake_…" he snaps.

"I'll call you," Grace says, quickly putting her coat on. "If I need you, I'll call you."

But as she walks rapidly away, she knows she won't. And she suspects Boyd knows it too.

Outside, the clear sky has clouded over, and a few cold spots of rain are starting to fall. Hurrying in the direction of her car, Grace doesn't look back. What would be the point?

_- the end -_

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_**A/N, May 2013:** There is now a story that follows this one - "Quintet"._


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